Now, it is well to understand this; well, too, to know how conscience works,--to see that it can only make cowards of us, as being the consciousness of what we are. Many are astray as to this: they think that conscience will bring us to God. Did it operate thus, in the case of Adam and Eve? Assuredly not. Nor will it, in the case of any sinner. How could it? How could the sense of what _I am_ ever bring me to God, if not accompanied by the faith of what _God is_? Impossible: it will produce shame, self-reproach, remorse, anguish. It may, also, give birth to certain efforts, on my part, to remedy the condition which it discloses; but these very efforts, so far from drawing us to God, rather act as a blind to hide him from our view. Thus, in the case of Adam and Eve, the discovery of their nakedness was followed by an effort of their own to cover it. "They sewed fig-leaves together and made themselves aprons." This is the first record we have of man's attempt to remedy, by his own device, his condition; and the attentive consideration thereof will afford us not a little instruction as to the real character of human religiousness in all ages. In the first place we see, not only in Adam's case, but in every case, that man's effort to remedy his condition is based upon the sense of his nakedness. He is, confessedly, naked, and all his works are the result of his being so. This can never avail. I must know that I am clothed, before I can do any thing acceptable in the sight of God.
And this, be it observed, is the difference between true Christianity and human religiousness. The former is founded upon the fact of a man's being clothed: the latter, upon the fact of his being naked. The former has for its starting-post what the latter has for its goal. All that a true Christian does, is because he is clothed,--perfectly clothed; all that a mere religionist does, is in order that he may be clothed. This makes a vast difference. The more we examine the genius of man's religion, in all its phases, the more we shall see its thorough insufficiency to remedy his state, or even to meet his own sense thereof. It may do very well for a time. It may avail so long as death, judgment, and the wrath of God are looked at from a distance, if looked at at all; but when a man comes to look these terrible realities straight in the face, he will find, in good truth, that his religion is a bed too short for him to stretch himself upon, and a covering too narrow for him to wrap himself in.
The moment Adam heard the voice of the Lord God, in Eden, "_he was afraid_," because, as he himself confessed, "I was naked." Yes, naked, although he had his apron on him. But it is plain that that covering did not even satisfy his own conscience. Had his conscience been divinely satisfied, he would not have been afraid. "If our heart condemn us not, then have we confidence toward God." (1 John iii. 20, 21.) But if even the human conscience cannot find repose in man's religious efforts, how much less can the holiness of God. Adam's apron could not screen him from the eye of God; and he could not stand in his presence naked: therefore he fled to hide himself. This is what conscience will do at all times. It will cause man to hide himself from God; and, moreover, all that his own religiousness offers him is a hiding-place from God. This is a miserable provision, inasmuch as he must meet God, some time or other; and if he has naught save the sad conscience of what he is, he must be afraid,--yea, he must be wretched. Indeed, nothing is needed, save hell itself, to complete the misery of one who feels he has to meet God, and knows only his own unfitness to meet him.
Had Adam known God's perfect love, he would not have been afraid. "There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear, because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love." (1 John iv. 17, 18.) But Adam knew not this, because he had believed the serpent's lie. He thought that God was any thing but love; and, therefore, the very last thought of his heart would have been to venture into his presence. He could not do it. Sin was there, and God and sin can never meet; so long as there is sin on the conscience, there must be the sense of distance from God. "He is of purer eyes than to behold evil, and cannot look upon iniquity." (Hab. i. 13.) Holiness and sin cannot dwell together. Sin, wherever it is found, can only be met by the wrath of God.